


give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light

by alexanger



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:30:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: john and alexander spend some time together after a battle.





	give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asongtosaygoodbye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asongtosaygoodbye/gifts).



The fighting occupies Laurens’ brain and that’s exactly what he needs in the thick of battle, because otherwise panic starts to crowd in and flood his thoughts. He’s absorbed in the motion of his sword and the roar of the guns and the way it feels to be alive, visceral, thundering blood and bellowing voice. He lives in the point of his sword, the tips of his toes, the pounding of his pulse, the rasp of his breathing. He’s too far gone to really think about the lives he’s taking. That consciousness will come later, when the world is quieter.

The battle doesn’t last forever, though, although at times it feels as though it will, and all too soon the bloodlust leaves and he’s left shaking and panting and wondering just where the hell Hamilton has got to this time.

It always starts as anger. It’s easier that way. If he’s furious, there’s no room for terror.

They don’t fight together. Hamilton was adamant about that from the very beginning. “If we’re together and something happens to one of us the other will be useless,” he’d explained in his command voice. “Besides -” And here his voice cracked a little - “if anything were to happen to you, and I was there and couldn’t stop it - John, I’d never forgive myself.”

Laurens thinks of that break in Hamilton’s voice, the sharp snap that spoke of intolerable agony, and he muses on Hamilton’s mother. He muses on the nature of loss. Every time the fighting calms, he thinks of Hamilton’s mother and the hollow sound in Hamilton’s voice when he speaks of her.

It’s taking too long to find him. It  _ always  _ takes too long to find him. Laurens feels panic rising in him. He tries to bite it back but it surges between his teeth and steals his breath until he’s gasping and shuddering as he dashes, frantic, between the bodies. He isn’t brave enough to look at their faces. He knows he’ll see friends laying there and he can’t endure that without Hamilton by his side. Unless -

Unless Hamilton’s body is laying there, too, dumped unceremoniously in the churned earth, felled by a sword thrust or a bullet or trampling or -

“Laurens,” calls a familiar nasal voice, and then again: “Laurens!”

Laurens whirls to see Hamilton approaching, one reddened hand clasped on the opposite arm. “Hamilton,” he breathes.

“Take me to my tent, if you don’t mind,” Hamilton says. “I need your assistance.”

“You’re wounded.”

“Yes.” Hamilton laughs. “Thankfully not badly.”

His heart surges into his throat. It’s half relief at finding him and half fear - any wound, in these conditions, could be a death sentence. Laurens places one hand at the small of Hamilton’s back and leads him through the torn up fields, between the bodies, to his tent.

Hamilton undresses slowly. The sleeve of his coat is torn, as is his shirt; he methodically picks fibres out of the wound while Laurens hunts for Hamilton’s canteen.

“Not much left,” Laurens says. He swirls what little water remains in the canteen.

“That’s fine.” Hamilton turns and Laurens can’t resist gazing at his body. Hamilton has always been lean, but the hardships of war have made his ribs and collarbone prominent. They jut out from the ashy, battle-scarred skin.

“Take mine.” Laurens offers his own canteen; Hamilton shakes his head.

“Laurens, I can’t -”

“Alexander.” Laurens comes close, touches his fingertips to the skin just above the gash in Hamilton’s arm, and says, “please. Allow me to help you.”

There’s a moment of tension - Hamilton doesn’t accept help often, Laurens knows - and then Hamilton makes a soft noise and says, “yes, alright.”

Laurens coaxes Hamilton into sitting down, and then methodically shreds the bottom of his slashed, bloodstained shirt into several thin strips. Through all of this, Hamilton watches him with dark eyes and a soft frown on his lips. 

“I’m going to clean this,” Laurens says. “It will sting.”

“Alright,” Hamilton says.

Laurens tips his canteen, dampens one of the strips of cloth, and tenderly dabs at the edges of the wound. It’s a clean cut, and for that he should probably be grateful - a rough cut, one with jagged edges, would be harder to clean - but it’s deep, clearly made with a very sharp sword, and he worries for Hamilton’s wellbeing. “Perhaps we should find a doctor,” he says.

“No. He’ll have far too much on his plate, and besides - I haven’t much luck with doctors,” says Hamilton.

“Mm,” is Laurens’ only reply. He finishes bathing the wound and then bandages it neatly with the strips of Hamilton’s shirt. Blood begins to show a little, blooming under the fabric, once white, starting to yellow with sweat and filth. Thankfully the bleeding stems and the spots don’t get much bigger. Laurens lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

He takes Hamilton’s wrists and kisses both of them soundly. He kisses the insides, right where Hamilton’s pulse would be found if he were to search with his fingers. Hamilton makes a cracked noise and leans forward to rest his chin on the top of Laurens’ head.

“I was so worried, dear,” Laurens murmurs.

“As was I, John. Every minute away from you is hellish, especially here -”

“We don’t have to fight apart, Alexander. We could be together and keep an eye on each other - searching for you after each battle will make my hair go white.”

Hamilton laughs a little. He pulls Laurens close, nuzzles his face into the junction between his neck and shoulder, and trails kisses between the freckles there. “I can’t,” he whispers. “But this - finding you after, holding you - this I can do.”

It’s getting colder. Hamilton is shivering. Laurens pulls away, offers his canteen, watches Hamilton drink. “I can’t take all your water, John,” he whispers. His lips are wet and Laurens’ are dry, so dry -

He doesn’t think, just leans forward and kisses Hamilton’s lips. There’s nothing but canvas separating the two of them from the battlefield and he can smell the blood and the torn earth and hear the screaming of men and horses but all of that is inconsequential, at least for now. The screams will go on all night; Laurens knows this from experience. There will be time to hear them later. For now, all there is is the softness of Hamilton’s lips, the way he smells underneath the dirt and sweat and mildew, the way he yields under Laurens’ hands.

“Take the water,” whispers Laurens against Hamilton’s lips. “I have you to sustain me.”

He knows he’s a fool but what of it? Perhaps by this time tomorrow he’ll have no further use for water. 

Hamilton tangles the fingers of his good hand in Laurens’ hair. “Mindless,” he says, but his tone is soft and affectionate.

“Yes -”

Hamilton kisses him. There’s passion in the kiss, there’s heat, but not enough to stir either of them. The world is too cold and too close and too cruel. For now it’s enough to just melt against each other. When they have time, later, time and space and distance from the battlefield and the stench of the dead and the dying, they will come together.

“Mindless,” Hamilton repeats when they break apart. He’s shivering worse now. The air is chill even inside of the tent. Laurens can hear his teeth chattering. He takes up Hamilton’s coat and drapes it over his shoulders. Hamilton makes a soft noise as the coat falls over his wounded arm. Laurens’ heart aches with love.

“We should go outside,” he suggests. “You need to be sitting beside a fire, Alexander. You’ll catch your death if you don’t, and God knows I’d be useless without you.”

“And I you,” Hamilton murmurs. He touches John’s chest just over his heart. 

John captures that hand and kisses it. He peppers kisses across the palm, kisses the tip of each slender finger, kisses that spot on his wrist again. He savours the sensation of his lips against the hand he loves so dearly. “You’re not to get injured any further,” he says sternly. “I couldn’t bear it if I were to lose you.”

“I won’t go anywhere if you don’t,” Hamilton says. There’s the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

Laurens can’t help but smile back as he helps Hamilton to his feet. “Alright, so be it. We’ll both be invincible. Does that sound good?”

Hamilton laughs as John leads him outside. “Yes, sir,” he teases.

And though they walk out into a hellish scape of torment and agony, it doesn’t seem quite so unbearable, Laurens thinks, with Hamilton at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos bathe my wounds. chat to me at [alexangery.tumblr.com](http://alexangery.tumblr.com)
> 
> and thanks to [amber](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pensiveVisionary) for finding the last digit of pi


End file.
